


Kom Folau

by roses_and_thorns3



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Praimfaya | Radiation Wave, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Clarke Griffin, BAMF Octavia Blake, BUT IT'S COOL I PROMISE, Commander Clarke Griffin, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/F, Gay tomfoolery, Grounder Clarke Griffin, Grounder Culture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, The Flame - Freeform, Trigedasleng, cuz fuck that noise, if the relationships didn't clue you in, yes Lexa is dead in this but she's NOT GONE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24811771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roses_and_thorns3/pseuds/roses_and_thorns3
Summary: "From the Earth we will grow, from the ashes we will rise."ORAlternate Season 4 with no Praimfaya. Clarke is Commander, the Grounders are in shambles, and Clarke's relationships are only getting weirder. For fans of the Flame, Grounder culture, polyamory, and angst. Or maybe it's just for me. We'll see.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Clarke Griffin/Raven Reyes, Octavia Blake/Clarke Griffin, Octavia Blake/Clarke Griffin/Lexa/Raven Reyes, Octavia Blake/Clarke Griffin/Raven Reyes
Comments: 29
Kudos: 109





	1. Prologue: Bring Out Your Dead

**Author's Note:**

> THE COMMANDER OF DEATH  
> With Azgeda closing in and the Ambassadors out of options, Clarke Griffin is offered a serum the new Fleimkepa Gaia reveres as "The Elixir of the First Night". Ascending as the Commander born anew, Clarke takes the Flame and vows to uphold the Coalition with her life. But the second AI holds many secrets, and the ghosts of past Commanders may not wish to accept her as their successor. 
> 
> THE COMMANDER'S BLADE  
> Drowning in grief and lost in rage, Octavia Blake understands nothing but the blade. Her relationship with her brother left in tatters, the young warrior haunts Polis like a wraith, shadowing her former mentor, Indra.  
> That is...until the new Commander seeks her out.  
> Given an offer she has no reason to refuse, Octavia is brought into closer quarters with Clarke, vowing to protect her and Polis while Clarke protects the Coalition. What threats lay ahead, however, may very well destroy them both. 
> 
> THE COMMANDER'S FLAME  
> Lexa kom Trikru vowed that her successor would protect her skyborn lover. But when the two become one and the same, Lexa must now guard Clarke from the wrath of her predecessors -- steeped in bloody tradition and bloodier decisions. Mental will collides with artificial instruction as the Flame merges with Clarke's brain, making the Commander of Death more lethal than ever before. Lexa only hopes she can keep Clarke from losing her way. 
> 
> Three warriors of their own caliber collide in this tale of leadership, loss, love, and blood. Kom folau, oso na gyon op.

Clarke’s neck aches. 

It’s a small, insignificant hurt, and that’s why she focuses on it. Small. Uncomfortable, but simple. Easier to stomach than the ache of everything else. Her head. Her heart. The wounds her own ALIE-puppeteered mother had inflicted. 

And the ache of everybody else. Clarke keeps her eyes closed, not quite ready to see what she knows will be yet another traumatic sight to add to the list. The sounds are indication enough that the killswitch worked--ALIE and her painkilling keys are gone. That’s enough of a balm, for now. Enough to hold back the emotions she’s kept dammed up for days. Minutes or years later, Clarke decides it’s time to move, the wood of ~~Lexa’s~~ the Commander’s throne no doubt exacerbating her aches. The afternoon sunlight greets her when her eyes finally open, illuminating bloodied faces on bloody bodies weeping with bloody emotions. It makes Clarke think of a book she’d read on the Ark, about Old World hospitals and the tragedies hanging over them. People are shouting, sobbing, wailing with grief, and it’s too much--too loud for the careful silence Clarke keeps in her brain. Her eyes meet her mother’s eyes immediately, and Abby smiles, prideful tears shining in her eyes. “You _did_ it.” 

Clarke tries to smile, but it doesn’t take. There’s just numbness, aching and ~~_I will always be with you._ ~~

Her heart catches up with her brain, and Clarke’s eyes flicker to Murphy, his hand disappeared inside Ontari’s chest. Somewhat belatedly she says, “We need to remove the Flame.” and then she’s leaning forward. _Fuck,_ she’s tired. Clarke shushes the thoughts and focuses instead on the charged sensations coming from her neck. “ _Quia nunc vale.”_

The Flame seems to sigh as it retracts. The sensation of something _unwrapping_ from around her brain skips right over nauseating and into grief-striking, all green eyes and secret smiles and _I will always_ \--

She needs to get out of this room. 

Her mom rubs a soothing hand down her arm as the Flame withdraws fully, electric tendrils disappearing into the apparatus. Abby’s hand moves to her face, stroking gently as she presses the Flame into Clarke’s fist with the other. 

Clarke takes it, the feel of it back in her palm more comforting than it should be, and thanks Murphy for having kept her alive. 

He grins, mirthlessly, “Just another day on the ground, right?” 

Quite right.

Clarke sucks in a shaky breath, scanning the room’s occupants a second time. She did it, they _won_. So why doesn’t it feel like anything? 

Someone says Murphy’s name, and Clarke watches the woman run into his arms. What was her name again? Her mom’s staring toward Kane, his head in his hands. The longing in Abby’s eyes is too familiar for the stain on Clarke’s heart, and she wants nothing more than to unsee it, suddenly. 

“I’m okay. Go to him.” Her mother complies.

Clarke is dead, somewhere inside. Her heart is beating but it doesn’t matter. The City of Light had chewed her up and spit her out, gave her Lexa and snatched her away. Clarke wants to lie down and not wake up until the memory of _her_ fades away. She wants to forget it, she wants to remember so vividly it never leaves her.

Bellamy is there, suddenly, beaten to shit. He helps her off the throne and onto her feet. She's still got her eyes on the people, on their pain. The grief smears Clarke's clothes and stains her boots and shoves itself down her throat. 

She needs to leave this damn room. 

Abruptly, almost laughably, Octavia shoves her sword into Pike's gut. Clarke's heart skips a single beat, and then steadies. She watches with cold detachment as the man dies, knowing nobody would come to his aid. _Good,_ the cold whispers, _one less thing to worry about._

Octavia, on the other hand, suddenly takes Pike’s place on Clarke’s worry list. The brunette stares Bellamy down, frozen resentment coming off her in waves, and then she’s storming off. 

As if pulled on a thread, Clarke is taking a step forward. Bellamy chimes in but she silences him with a squeeze of his arm, and then she’s following (stumbling) after Octavia.

Clarke ignores the eyes trailing her as she does so.

==

Every step out of the throne room is too heavy, the sound of her boots against the floor too loud in her ears. Clarke remembers her old room in the tower, the pitcher of water always full on her nightstand, the warm candlelight and soft furs and--

Ugh. 

It takes a moment before she sees her target, the warrior much swifter on her feet than Clarke in her exhausted state. When she’s close enough to mark the details of Octavia’s sword, Clarke calls out.

“Octavia, wait!” 

The younger woman slows, but doesn’t turn, replying in a cold rasp, “Look, Clarke, thank you for saving all our asses again, but unless you’ve come to help me get the people off the crosses, we really have nothing to say to each other.” 

To the point. Clarke can work with it. “Please, just wait. I--” 

“You _what?_ ” O cuts in, stopping short, “Are you gonna say you’re sorry for not coming with me that day? Are you gonna say I should _forgive_ Bellamy for getting Lincoln killed? _What,_ Clarke? What do you want?” 

_Fuck if I know,_ Clarke thinks, regretting even coming out here. But anywhere was better than that pillbox of breakdowns. Clarke’s teeth grind, recalculating.

“All I was going to say, Octavia, is that if the people on the crosses even stand a chance of surviving, we need supplies. Come with me to the _fisa’_ s quarters, please.” 

Octavia’s eyes narrow, inspecting Clarke for ulterior motives. Whatever she finds must be satisfying, because she steps to the side and extends an arm down the hall. “Lead the way.” 

Clarke’s own eyes shutter, just for a moment. _I want to go to sleep._

Then she straightens, and takes the lead.

=

The courtyard is no better than the throne room. Clarke and Octavia work in tense cooperation with other Polis citizens, removing the crucified one by one. Most are corpses. A lucky few, Indra among them, are not. Abby joins them eventually, med kit in tow, and Octavia takes over setting victims on makeshift stretchers long enough for Clarke to make a second run to the _fisas’_ quarters, a building hugging the eastern curve of the Tower. The healers themselves are relatively unscathed, many of them having followed the path of least resistance by taking the chip with no fight. The hours are a balm to Clarke's forever worrying mind, benching the numerous swirling thoughts long enough to stop focusing on them. The chaos seems to unify everyone, minimal conflict breaking out as all who can tend to the wounded, and collect the dead.

Eventually Clarke’s tactical brain resumes control, and she considers the coming days. Skaikru will no doubt struggle to return to Arkadia without trouble. Ontari’s death and the Ambassadors currently unaccounted for leave Polis' leadership in shambles. It's too much. All of it is too much. 

_Tomorrow’s problem,_ Clarke repeats again and again, her only mantra. 

Day turns to evening and then to night. The death toll creeps ever higher. 

Clarke drags herself through it, letting the pains and horrific sights mark her until there’s no room left in her brain or body for the traumas she’s witnessed.

=

When the stars emerge fully, and the puddles of blood have been rinsed from the courtyard, and dozens now lay in cots with wounds dressed and bound, Clarke departs silently for the Tower, slipping out from under the eyes of her friends. Are they her friends? She hasn't had time to check. Maybe she'll ask once she's had some fucking sleep. Clarke starts tugging on her hair as she walks, trying to undo the plaits despite the screaming soreness in her arms. 

The elevator is broken, and ascending the Tower levels on foot is pure agony, but Clarke forces herself to do it anyway. The events of the day play on endless loop, from the adrenaline-fueled stress of traversing the City of Light to the wonder of Lexa in all her glory. 

How much everything, everything, everything about today hurts. Clarke thinks of Murphy, pumping his captor’s dead heart to keep Clarke alive, and it feels like someone is squeezing her own heart, forcing it to beat despite its hesitation, its reluctance in the face of all she has before her now.

_I never thought I’d see you again._

_I told you my Spirit would choose wisely._

Clarke is crying, but she doesn’t feel it. She just walks, and walks, and walks. The upper levels of the Tower spread out in front of her, and as if possessed she walks right past the room she’d stayed in and up another, shorter flight of stairs. 

The hall to Lexa’s room is a warpath. Her beautiful, tasteful furniture were nothing but a toppled barricade surrounding the doors. A puddle of water fills the hall, and Clarke stomps through it, stopping when she sees the statues from either side of Lexa’s bed in pieces on the floor. 

And there’s the sofa she’d napped on while Clarke drew her, upturned against a wall. The accompanying table was broken in two on the other side of the doors. Clarke’s view of it all blurs, more tears coating her face. She’s too stricken by it all to do anything except walk straight past it and into the room.

The bed is intact by some miracle, and Clarke blatantly fails at resisting the most recent memory she has of it. Swathed in blankets with her Commander at her side, skin to skin and for one brief little moment, _happy._

That word is a fiction to Clarke, something never to be attained. Not ever again. 

She’s given up on undoing her braids, and doesn’t even stop to unlace her boots before climbing onto the bed, her tears dripping onto the pillow as she collapses.

Clarke should have gotten someone to stand guard while she slept. Should have mentioned where she was going before disappearing. Should have bothered to try and get out of the armored corset hugging her middle, should have had her mom stitch up her head where the Flame had torn through. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it does.

She draws her knees up to her chest, forgoing the bed covers. The sobs she can’t hear wrack her body, radiating outwards. 

_I will always be with you._

_I will always be with you._

_I will always be with you._


	2. Words Overdue

“If you pull that, you will never forgive yourself.” 

Of all the things Clarke thinks a computer in a red dress might say to her, this isn’t one of them. Becca Pramheda stands as a warm presence by Clarke’s side, disrupting the artificial blue glow of the lab around them with pulsing, compassionate wisdom and the solidity of someone who is very old, and very weary. She’s everything Clarke thought she would be, a genius woman who made too large a mistake, and has spent the following centuries trying to make amends, as the ghost in the shell. 

As Clarke assumes she’ll soon follow, once she pulls this damn switch. 

But there is ALIE, imperious in her heels and robotic poise, puppeteering Becca’s face with as much success as a statue. Her voice lacks all inflection, not even the slightest hint of fear or desperation at her incoming destruction, only cool analysis. 

Clarke shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Her mind has turned huge and cavernous, thousands of silhouetted thoughts curling around her brain like fog--words and memories that don’t belong to her, hidden behind a thin veil. Becca’s proximity only seems to magnify the oddity, every fiber of Clarke’s being stretching toward the woman in recognition. 

_I know you,_ her body seems to croon, _we are one and the same._

Something to ponder later. 

“You can’t stop this, ALIE. You’re done.” Clarke says, her voice more solid than she feels.

The AI studies Clarke with dispassionate calculation, eyes ticking upward to meet Clarke’s. “There is another decision to be made, Clarke. One that benefits us both.” 

Clarke knows better. Painfully so. Her time on the ground has forever ruined her ideas of mutual benefit. No matter what, someone will always lose. 

And yet. 

“What are you talking about,” she grits out, grip on the killswitch tightening. Becca says nothing, but Clarke hears her nonetheless: _We have one minute, Clarke. One minute to hear her out. After that, I won’t be able to help you anymore._ She rests a comforting hand on Clarke’s forearm, silent voice continuing on, _stay strong._

ALIE begins to pace, heels clicking against the floor. There’s too much detail here, it’s too distracting--Clarke feels as if every step, every blink, every tick of the invisible clock is happening within her--a microcosmic world within the world. Focus focus focus

“Your body is failing. By my calculation, the amount of blood in Ontari’s body will cease optimal transfusion levels in twenty heartbeats. Your bodily functions have already lost a third of their running capacity. Without immediate intervention, your brain will--” 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “If you think I care what happens to me, you’ve miscalculated.” 

She tugs the killswitch, the locking mechanism clicking off with a sigh--

“Unlike your lover, your mind will not be rescued by the second AI. So long as you are here, only I can save you. Only I can give you the life with Lexa you’ve always wanted.” 

Becca and Clarke tense in unison, target struck. 

“She’s _stalling_. Clarke, we’re running out of time.” 

ALIE nods. “Yes. You are. But I can give you more. I can bring you peace, with Lexa by your side.” 

_Shutupshutupshutupshutup,_ there’s galeforce wind howling from the hole in Clarke’s chest where Lexa isn’t, but there’s no time for such weakness.

“No. There is another way.” Becca’s voice is lighter, the angel on Clarke’s right promising hope.

“I assure you. There is not.” and ALIE, the devil on her left. 

Clarke turns toward Becca, desperation in her eyes. “Please,” Clarke can’t keep the desperation from her voice. Her face contorts with the beast beneath her skin, the roiling grief and rage she’s suppressed and suppressed and suppressed. Becca smiles grimly, empathy shining in her eyes. 

She doesn’t speak, but Clarke hears her. Sees a thousand candles burning, sees blood black as night, stormclouds devouring an irradiated sky. Whispers, fragments, puzzle pieces of a plan--a hope--fall into place inside Clarke, settling over her like a shroud. 

Clarke breathes sharply, and nods. Becca smiles.

“You’re wrong, ALIE.” Clarke fixes the AI with a stare as she tugs the killswitch forward, “About everything.”

The switch seems to hum as it locks into position, and the world implodes. 

~

“Clarke.”

She wakes, and the weight on her chest has not lessened in the slightest. Heaving in a breath, the world filters back in as Clarke remembers who she is. Why she’s here. Why she isn’t dead.

When she spots her mother leaning over her, her brow furrows, and she snaps upright.

“Hey hey hey, shhh, it’s okay. It’s just me.” 

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, baby. You’re safe now.” 

A lie, but Clarke takes what she can get. Shoulders sagging, she lets her gaze fall to her lap, eyes shuttering. “Hi, Mom.” 

“Hi honey,” Abby sweeps the snarled hair from Clarke’s face, stroking her cheek gently, “I’m glad you got some rest.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“About seven hours. It’s almost dawn.” 

Clarke drags her forearm across her eyes, brow furrowing, “That’s...more sleep than I’ve had in awhile.” 

Abby studies her sadly, lips pursed. 

Clarke scans the room around them, still as much of a disaster as when she’d found it. “We should probably get down to the courtyard, then.”

“In a minute. We need to talk.”

“Something _is_ wrong. I knew it, you can tell me on the way--”

“No, sweetie, no. I’m serious, everything’s fine. I just...I owe you an apology.” 

It’s Clarke’s turn to purse her lips. “Mom, the person who tortured me? That was ALIE. Not you. It’s okay. _I’m_ okay.”

Cue Old World children’s rhyme. Liar liar, world on fire, burning like a funeral pyre.

That’s how Clarke learned it, anyway.

Abby’s eyes are already weary, and they only worsen as tears begin to pool in them. “No, not...not that. I know that, that it was ALIE, I just--” 

Clarke suddenly really, really doesn’t want to do this right now. Squirming, she rests her hands on her mother’s shoulders, trying to calm what’s rising up between them. 

Between sobs, Abby continues. “I owe you an apology for...for not realizing what was between you and Lexa.” 

Fuck.

Clarke swallows hard on the lump in her throat and peers down at her lap, wondering if there’ll ever be an end to this torrent of heartache. The last time she’d ever freely spoken about her feelings for someone was years ago, before she’d ever met Finn. Remembering how to do it is too bizarre, without Wells. Without the expectation that if she loves someone, they aren’t going to die. 

Dad. Wells. Finn. Almost her mom. Almost every single one of her friends (friends?). Lexa. 

LexaLexaLexa. She will never leave Clarke’s mind. 

“How long? Were the two of you together, I mean.” 

Clarke looks up, eyes stinging. “Not long. I had only just decided to be honest with her when...when she died.” the final word is poison in her mouth. 

Gunshots. Titus’ severe face. Murphy’s battered form. 

_The next Commander will protect you_. 

The memory snags on Clarke’s awareness, warping and turning inward on itself, and a window seems to pop open in her mind--wind gusting through. 

_There’s another way._ Becca’s voice. 

_Listen to me, Clarke_ . _You can see Lexa again. But there’s a price. Will you pay it?_

Yes. Any price. Any price for another chance to hold her. 

_Find the Fleimkepa. Find her, and tell her what I’m about to tell you._

Holy shit. 

Clarke doesn’t know why she forgot, what triggered the memories to return--but she knows now, knows it _all_ , everything she needs to do to have Lexa back. The chessboard, and every piece in its place. _My Spirit will choose wisely._

“--knew you had a connection, but I didn’t realize--”

Shitshitshit. Too much at once. Clarke can’t focus. 

“I never trusted her, and I’m sorry for that, Clarke. If I’d known, I...would have tried to support you. Like I should have been this entire time. I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so sorry--” 

Clarke tugs her mom into an embrace, maybe a little too hard for both their injuries. There’s a live wire running through her now, a surprise jolt from the memories now returned to her. Why now and what they mean exactly doesn’t matter--what matters is that she knows. And she will do what needs to be done. 

Not for anybody else, this time. 

No. Just for her.

Clarke pulls away, staring fixedly at her mother. “Listen to me. Since we got to the ground, nothing has ever gone how it _should_. We’ve done things we never thought we’d have to do, failed in ways we couldn’t have imagined. Mom, I don’t care about what you did or didn’t do for me in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore. All I need is for you to support me _now_. Will you do that?” 

Abby blinks, clearly taken aback. “O-of course, Clarke. I’m here for you, every step of the way.” 

Clarke smiles, and it’s a real smile. “Thank you.” 

Abby leans forward, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. The first hints of dawn appear from the balcony. Clarke takes a deep breath, the sharpness in her chest subsiding slightly. 

“God, your hair is a mess.” Abby says. 

“So’s yours.” 

Clarke has it in her to snort, even as it hurts her sore muscles to do so. 

“And you’re wearing a _corset._ ”

“It’s got metal in it.” 

“How comfy.” 

They’re laughing again, and it’s enough to ignore the dried blood on her mother’s hands, the dried blood on Clarke’s face, the dried blood covering the world--if only for a moment. 

That’s when people in the courtyard start screaming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know--this is kind of a bottle chapter. I'm organizing all the plot pieces, and I really wanted this sort of interim chapter to A) show you how the scene in 3x16 is different B) give Clarke some much needed TLC, and C) Motivate myself to get to the juicy stuff. Either way, thank you ALL so much for your comments and kudos--I seriously didn't expect them this early on, and I'm so excited to share these wacky ideas I've got with you. <3 Ai hod yu in.
> 
> [Tumblr](tiredmoonslut.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> Will I finish this fic? *shakes Magic 8-ball*
> 
> "Signs point to yes". 
> 
> ;) 
> 
> [Tumblr](http://tiredmoonslut.tumblr.com)!


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